


Laying Odds

by theleaveswant



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Apologies, Bad Decisions, Bets & Wagers, Bisexual Character, Breakfast, F/F, F/M, Genital Piercing, Hangover, Hook-Up, House Party, Humiliation, Jack works in mysterious ways, Manipulation, Mass Effect 3: Citadel, Morning After, Multi, My First Work in This Fandom, Scheming, Set-Up, With friends like these . . .
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard blinks rapidly, groping for a way to process that that isn't completely horrifying. "In what possible way can you and I screwing relate to you owing Lieutenant Vega money?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying Odds

**Author's Note:**

> The morning after an energetic party (Citadel DLC).
> 
> My first Mass Effect story. First video game fandom story, period. I'm usually not nervous about dipping my fic-posting toes in new waters.
> 
> Please let me know if you want me to tag for or alert you about anything specific before you read.

There's a body in bed next to Shepard's.

Human. Slender. Bare skin covered almost entirely in ink. 

Shepard pokes her shoulder tentatively with one finger and Jack snaps conscious, fierce eyes immediately honing in on the source of the disturbance. She blinks at Shepard once in puzzlement before her face falls. "Fuck!" she says and thumps her head back onto the pillow dramatically. She rubs at her face with both hands, groaning.

Shepard swallows; her tongue feels like a dried apricot. "Did we . . ."

Jack's embellished fingers slowly retreat. "I don't know," she says unconvincingly. "Did we?"

Shepard already knows the answer but takes a peek under the covers just in case.

The fact that they are both completely naked is not in itself proof of anything except that they are both completely naked. More informative is the way the position of Jack's legs exposes the clitoral hood piercing that Shepard remembers they'd both very much enjoyed her playing with, mouth-wise, in the very early hours of this morning. "We thoroughly did."

"Fuck!" Jack repeats with another thump.

"Good morning to you too," Shepard says waspishly. 

"Ah, I don't mean it like that," Jack says, irritatingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed given the genuinely terrifying volume of alcohol she'd ingested the night before. Not for the first time, Shepard kinda wants to throttle her. "I just mean, y'know. I wasn't planning on this and now I owe Muscles money."

Shepard blinks rapidly, groping for a way to process that that isn't completely horrifying. "In what possible way can you and I screwing relate to you owing Lieutenant Vega money?"

". . . . Lost a bet."

"What?!" Shepard sits up, aware but unconcerned that she's basically shouting, indignation overriding both her own hangover and any concern for the comfort of her guests. "Wow. That's not degrading _at all_. The bet was on what, who could get me into bed?"

Jack purses full lips and drums her fingertips on her prominent hip bones. She avoids Shepard's eyes.

Fantastic. "You two high-rollers come up with this plan last night?"

"Sort of. Not really. We might've started it the day you killed the clone." 

Shepard's jaw clenches reflexively while she seethes. Jack joins her in sitting up but defensively, with her legs drawn up and arms wrapped around her shins. Demonstrably unstable biotic or not, Shepard is too pissed off to let up now. "And how much is my low virtue worth, exactly?"

Jack mumbles seven syllables into her knees.

"What was that?"

"One hundred thousand credits," Jack rolls her eyes and enunciates.

Shepard just scoffs, unsure if she should feel flattered or insulted by the sum. What's the going rate for seduction bets these days, anyway? "Was anybody else involved in this?"

Jack hums. "Not directly?"

"But other people know about it."

"A few."

Now it's Shepard's turn to thump back on her pillow. Then she frowns. "Hang on—if you're here, then why . . . Did you and James bet on each other?!"

The arch of Jack's eyebrow is impressively articulate.

"What . . ." Shepard shakes her head, exasperated. "I need to wash."

Shepard rolls out of bed and stomps to the shower, ignoring Jack's offended "thanks", her own nudity, and the sick prothean peering groggily up from the bathroom floor.

Well, Shepard thinks as she steps under the stream of water, that paints certain recent events in a different light. Too bad for everyone that light is somehow even _less_ flattering.

Her shower is more aggressive than efficient; a blast of cold water to wake herself up, a quick application of body wash (her own—using Anderson's leftover toiletries was a bridge too far by far) and a warm rinse. It's not what her body wants, sore as she is after yesterday's assorted exertions, but it's all her churning mind has patience for.

Jack is still on the bed when Shepard returns, toweling roughly, but she's clothed now—as clothed as Jack gets, anyway.

"Saying 'I didn't mean to' won't do a hell of a lot of good now, will it?"

"No, it will not." Shepard throws her a frosty look while she heads for the closet. She pulls on clean underwear and t-shirt, not bothering with a bra. Yesterday's fatigue pants and bare feet complete the ensemble and Shepard dumps her wet towel on the bed before marching towards the stairs. Jack hops up to follow Shepard but wisely says nothing (Jack could bounce out of getting tossed over the railing without a scratch; Shepard's not so sure about the apartment).

Vega's in the kitchen cracking eggs for an audience of Grunt, Ashley, and Miranda.

As soon as Jack and Shepard enter the latter's field of vision she tsks. "Looks like someone tipped over after all."

Jack hisses at her like a cat and Miranda snickers. Jack glares but her mouth shows the edge of a smile. 

If Shepard didn't have graver matters to attend to she'd tell them to get a room.

"What's going on over there?" James inquires of their exchange. He looks up from the skillet he's supervising to see Jack and Shepard arriving together and his face freezes. He stares for a slow beat, then turns suspicious eyes on Jack. "Coincidence?" he asks.

Jack steals a strip of red pepper from a cutting board at the edge of the island before leaning casually back on the counter top. "Nope." She bites into the pepper with a clean, wet 'snap'.

"Bullshit." He frowns, his attention jumping from Jack to Shepard, who crosses arms in front of her chest while looking distinctly unimpressed, and back to Jack. "You said you weren't gonna try!"

Jack shrugs modestly. "I'll get you the creds later today; gotta hassle a guy first."

"I knew you clowns went ahead with that," Miranda says with a smug grin at Jack and James. "And I warned you it was a bad idea."

Grunt scowls blankly at the humans. "I'm confused. And still hungry. You said breakfast would be fast."

"Toldja we oversold it," Ash rasps from where she's hovering over a mug of, Shepard assumes, Irish coffee, given the proximity of both coffee pot and whiskey bottle.

"'Oversold', really? I'm sure you must mean simply 'sold', given the outcome." Miranda's tone makes it clear she knows exactly what Ashley meant.

"You're going to burn those eggs," Grunt advises. "When you do, can I eat all of them?"

"Hijo de puta." James looks like he wants to smash his head into the surface in front of him and remembers just in time that it's a stove. Grunt "aww"s when he takes the eggs off the burner so they can't scorch. James reluctantly lifts his gaze to meet Shepard's. "You know what happened?"

"I know I want breakfast," Grunt interrupts.

"I have some idea," Shepard says in her Dirty Harry voice, and even Grunt has the good sense to look chagrined. "Can't say I understand it, though."

James looks entreatingly at Miranda to take over the food preparation but she quickly shakes her head. Ash sighs and shuffles around the island to take James' spot while he leads Shepard out of the kitchen, his shoulders hunched like a dog caught stealing people food or digging up the flower beds.

Samantha smiles warmly when James and Shepard enter the den; the smile quickly fizzles when she takes in their respective expressions. "I'll go check on Tali," she says, and practically sprints from the room. 

Shepard positions herself squarely in front of James and spreads her hands: explain.

"I know this looks bad," he begins, and Shepard's eyebrows climb.

"It's—arrgh." He presses a fist to his forehead and grimaces. "I'm such a fucking idiot. A couple of days ago, after you recovered the Normandy, a few of us were in the lounge at Purgatory." He clarifies 'us' as 'the other party guests' with a gesture at the rest of the apartment.

"It started with talking about, y'know, ways to tell who's not a clone, and of course somebody mentioned, well, sex." His voice drops almost to a whisper in the last word. "Then someone else asked how any of us could tell if _you_ were a clone that way, and a couple of people looked at me—I told 'em there wasn't anything going on but those pendejos said there was! I swore it was loco, that you wouldn't do that, you and I were just kidding around, and the next thing I know Jack's betting me that we'd, well, before the end of shore leave. I said 'yeah right, she's more likely to hook up with you' and Jack said 'you're on', and then I couldn't back out because if I did it'd look like I thought there _was_ something going on, and that . . ." He shakes his head. "I was too drunk to think about that. I swear, when I was here and I asked—I thought you were going to say 'of course I'm kidding' or bring up regs or . . . I panicked. And not just because of the bet, although I did want to win it, so I—well, you were there. I twitched like a hanar full of stims and I insulted you, and really, lo siento, I am so, so sorry." 

He looks at Shepard like he's hoping she'll say something to interrupt him. She will not.

James blows out another deep breath and scrubs one hand through his crest of hair. "I figured at that point any chance I'd had was blown and Jack said she wasn't even gonna try to make a move so I thought 'ok, it's over'. But then—chingame—last night . . ." James groans and tilts his face up towards the ceiling. "You kept giving me those come hithery looks and I just—I didn't know what to do. Ash said she'd help me out for a sixty-forty split—Shepard, please don't be mad at her, she didn't mean anything vicious. In fact she was one of the ones at Purgatory who said we'd be good together!" He sighs and almost drops into the nearest chair before catching himself and snapping into drill-perfect Attention.

"In summary, I'm a worthless meathead and should probably go live under a rock." He risks a sheepish look at her. "Do you want me to get the hell out of your apartment?"

"James. . ." Shepard says, and stops, because how are you supposed to follow a speech like that? "The fact you even considered making this wager—I'm not impressed."

James nods, accepting this. 

"Your behavior in this situation, the frankly appalling judgment you demonstrated managing it, reflects badly on you as an officer; as an N7 inductee—hell, as a grown-up human being."

"I know, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"I am deeply, gravely disappointed in you, and it worries me because I know you're capable of better, but if you can't be relied upon to—"

"Commander—" James looks up with dread in his eyes. "If you don't think that I—"

Shepard raises a forestalling hand. "Relax, meathead. You're not getting thrown off the ship." She rubs at her forehead; now the rage is washing out the pain is finally creeping in. She knows she has a reputation for being hot-tempered, but her own crew can't think she's that much of a tyrant—can they? After this ridiculous mess with the clone? "You might not go on many away missions for a while but you're not homeless. And please, can the 'Commander' business for just a minute."

James frowns. "Yes, Com. . .padre," he recovers. "I'm listening."

Shepard looks down at her feet on the carpet and makes fists with her toes; it is surprisingly grounding. "You said you panicked 'not just because of the bet'. What does that mean?"

He shrugs awkwardly and ventures, "The bounds of reality were shifting?"

Shepard laughs at that and Vega answers with a tentative smile. The tension between them begins to ease. Shepard shakes her head. "You should have told me about this then instead of letting things devolve."

Another nod. "I thought you'd be pissed if I told you."

"That you treated me like a racing varren? Absolutely! But at least—" She sighs. " _Not_ telling me says some worrying things about our ability to trust each other, doesn't it?"

James rubs the back of his neck guiltily. 

Shepard closes her eyes and gathers her nerve. "Tell me honestly, did you agree to the bet because you believed I didn't want to sleep with you, or—"

"Yes!" James says before Shepard can get to 'or because you didn't want to sleep with me'. "And I am the dumbest ass."

Shepard sighs, more relieved than she'd like to admit. Independent 22nd-century woman on a mission of galactic importance she might be, but learning that someone you're possibly a little sweet on finds you physically or socially unattractive stings indiscriminately.

She keeps her eyes closed until the end of the next sentence. "Does it bother you that I slept with Jack?"

"Nuh-uh," he says, then tips his head. "Actually yeah, some, but you're a grown-up and I'm a moron. I have no right to get jealous." He frowns. "Of course now I'm worried she was freaky good, and so was . . . whoevers you were with before that, and I never stood a chance of impressing you anyway."

Shepard smiles gently. "Are you that bad a lay?" she asks.

"Not according to the survivors. I'm sorry!" James hurries to say while Shepard's eyebrows rise. "That wasn't even funny, was it? I think I might be light-headed with relief that you haven't punched me in the junk."

"The day is young," Shepard says. She studies his rough face and his currently nervous but always surprisingly pretty eyes. "The bet's over now, right? It's completely resolved."

"Yeah. . ." He looks at her warily, blinking. His pretty eyes slowly widen. "You don't mean . . ."

"I don't know yet. I've got a lot to think about." She takes a deep breath. "In the meantime, you promised to feed the rest of these assholes."

"Indeed I did . . . Lola." James grins.

"Get out of here." She chases him from the den with shooing motions. When he's gone she turns her face up to the recessed lights and rakes both hands through her hair.

Killing monsters is a piece of cake. Even the diplomatic cat-herding has gotten easier with practice. Personal relationships? That, Shepard is sure, she will never get the hang of.

Exiting the den, she sees that James has been waylaid by a very animated Cortez. 

"You nitwit, I can't believe you're still walking after a stunt like that! Hey, come here a minute." Cortez tries to get behind James, who circles away from him. 

"The hell are you doing?" he asks, amused.

"I want to borrow that horseshoe up your ass. Now hold still."

James scampers away, laughing, with Cortez in pursuit. "No way, hermano. I need that thing!"

"Adorable," Kasumi says, decloaking silently at Shepard's elbow. 

Shepard raises an eyebrow. "Them or me?"

Kasumi smiles affectionately and pats her on the head.

Shepard rolls her eyes. "Don't make me search you before you leave. Seriously, I will hold you upside down and shake you."

Kasumi Cheshire-cat vanishes. "Have to catch me first."

"Right in front of Jacob!" Shepard adds to the empty air, and goes to face the rest of her oh-so-respectful crew.

 

Once everybody in any condition to eat is sated and sprawling out in one of the couch areas, Jack goes to the kitchen for more orange juice. On the pretense of clearing empty breakfast dishes, Miranda follows.

"You did all that on purpose, didn't you?" Miranda asks, setting her stack of plates quietly on the counter top. 

Jack raises her eyebrows over the juice bottle she's drinking directly from.

"That whole operation—pulling Shepard, spilling the beans, even making the damned bet in the first place—you planned it, every step of the way."

Jack smirks and puts the empty bottle back in the fridge. "What can I say? I'm a fairy fucking godmother."

She slaps Miranda's ass on her way out of the kitchen.


End file.
